


The Evolution of Red into Oblivion (and the Future)

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 04:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3368312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre didn’t know it at the time, but he should have taken the red cravat flying through the air as a sign. Enjolras and Combeferre's first meeting through the barricade, chronicled through the color red.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Evolution of Red into Oblivion (and the Future)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Les Mis Summer Mini-fest this past summer.

Combeferre didn’t know it at the time, but he should have taken the red cravat flying through the air as a sign.

A sign of the revolution they all held so dear, a sign of his friendship with Enjolras, a sign of what it might mean for his end. But as memory serves, most of what he felt at the time was bewildered amusement; that, and the sense that the minute the other young man met his eye, that they were bound together by something larger than their own mortal forms, something infinite, by the things that never die.

A flash of red cloth passes in front of his eyes. Out of instinct and remarkably excellent reflex, he catches it with a flick of his wrist. A young man with messily tied back blonde hair that shines as bright as the sun itself rushes up toward him, a little breathless, scarcely skidding to a stop and barely avoiding toppling Combeferre over. Even that movement is oddly graceful, but his bag cannot handle the sudden stop, and some of his books go tumbling out onto the ground.

“Do pardon me!” the young man exclaims, words quiet but crisp. “I have almost knocked you to the ground in my haste to catch my cravat, I fear. And I nearly pelted you with my books.”

“Quite all right,” Combeferre says, smiling as he hands the cravat back, taking in the rest of the unnamed young man’s outfit, which appears to consist of a black jacket, black pants, black shirt, and a tan waistcoat, so the bright color of the cravat surprises him.

“It was far windier today than I expected, and I rushed out and didn’t tie it properly, which Courfeyrac warns me about perpetually,” the young man pauses, realizing that he’s rambling, and composes himself, trying the cravat with haste around his neck. “My friend Courfeyrac gave this to me you see, and he’s set to arrive in Paris next week. If he found out I’d lost it, well. I’d never hear the end. So thank you for catching it for me.” He puts out a hand, direct. “I’m Enjolras.”

“Combeferre,” he answers, taking the hand offered him. “Are you new to Paris yourself?”

“Very,” Enjolras replies, brushing a pesky strand of hair out of his eyes. “I’ve only been here about two weeks. I’m starting at the law school soon. Yourself?”

“Three weeks,” Combeferre says. “And I’m a student myself, though doing medicine. Well, I’ve  _decided_  on medicine, but there’s so much to learn, it was a bit difficult.” He looks down, suddenly reminded of the books that had so recently come spilling out of his new acquaintance’s bag. “Ah. Your books.”

“Oh!” Enjolras says, his mouth forming a soft ‘O’ of surprise. “Yes.”

He bends down in what he must think is a casual manner, a tinge of anxiety clearly plaguing him as he sees Combeferre’s eyes flitting over the names on the spines.

_Rousseau,_  Combeferre notes.  _Robespierre. Marat. Thomas Paine._

“Intriguing titles,” Combeferre says easily, his voice a whisper as if he fears gendarmes will appear as if from nowhere and arrest them simply for possessing books of revolutions past.

Enjolras meets his eyes again, a challenge held within them, and some kind of invisible spark lights, hot as fire, but longer lasting, the embers smoking in his eyes.

“Though I admit I am reading a bit of Condorcet and Desmoulins myself, at present,” Combeferre continues, trusting this person for reasons he doesn’t really understand, aside from a shared interest in what some might consider incendiary reading material. But, he muses, great friendships are struck on such things.

At this, Enjolras truly smiles, and when he does, it illuminates his entire face, sending the light up into his blue eyes. It is radiant, Combeferre thinks, containing within it vast visions of the future. He doesn’t know why this person he just ran into on the street is so important: to him, suddenly and without warning, but also to something larger at play, something intangible. Longish strands of blond from the haphazard tail tied at Enjolras’ neck fall against the red of the cravat, a contrast and a complement to Combeferre’s short, sandy brown hair resting at the lapels of his navy jacket.

“I have distracted you from your journey, it would seem,” Enjolras says, polite. He’s charming, with a breath of the dangerous unknown obvious within him, but bleeding forth with life. A tad shy, perhaps.

“I was heading to a small café I found the other day,” Combeferre says. “Perhaps you’d like to accompany me?”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, and in that moment he looks younger than the rough age of seventeen that Combeferre has assigned him. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you…”

“You’re not,” Combeferre insists. “I have no friends in the city yet, and I am pleased to find one with such…similar interests,” he says with a slight smirk.

Enjolras returns his own version and agrees.

“Friends,” he says simply. “Courfeyrac will be so pleased I’ve already found one. He will insist when he arrives that you are already his friend by default, so be forewarned. But kindly do not tell him I almost lost the cravat he gave me or he will never be quiet about it.”

Combeferre chuckles, feeling so much less isolated than he had just mere minutes ago. He loved Paris, he’d dreamt of Paris, but he’d grown up in the south outside Avignon, and this was very, very different. Enjolras has a bit of a Marseilles accent, so Combeferre suspects he might feel the same. They walk along together, speaking in hushed whispers of the contents of their books, and Combeferre realizes that if this is the road they want to go down, that they will need to learn the art of being a bit more cautious about books tumbling out of their bags.

Somehow, Combeferre knows even now, as the sunlight catches off Enjolras’ hair and bounces off the gold of his own watch, connecting them, that their fates are intertwined.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————

Combeferre notices the red once again a few weeks later, when Enjolras introduces him to Courfeyrac. It is not in his clothing this time, but in bright patches on his cheeks when Courfeyrac makes him laugh.

And when Enjolras  _truly_  laughs, it is a most undignified sound, bubbling up from his diaphragm into an uncontrolled shout of delight. Combeferre has heard a few quiet, reserved chuckles from his new friend in the past few weeks, shy smiles of amusement, but Courfeyrac knows how to make him nearly bust himself open with laughter.

And with a  _pun_ , no less.

“I see that smirk on your face Combeferre,” Courfeyrac says, swirling dramatically to face him from his position on the edge of Enjolras’ tiny sofa. “You are trying not to laugh at my pun.”

“And succeeding,” Combeferre says dryly, but he feels the smile pulling at his lips.

“Failing,” Courfeyrac insists. “Enjolras has been laughing at my puns since boarding school, have you not my friend?”

Enjolras breathes in, finally collecting himself, and Combeferre watches the red recede from his skin, leaving small traces of pink, life pumping through him like electricity.

“Indeed I have,” Enjolras admits. “I am sorry Combeferre, I fear my sense of humor is dreadful and I have not yet told you.”

“We will sway him over to our side,” Courfeyrac whispers conspiratorially into Enjolras’ ear. “We will make him laugh at a pun if it is the last thing we do.”

“Hmmm,” Combeferre says, thinking that he should like to get used to this, the three of them sitting together as if it is the most comfortable thing in the world. “I will accept that challenge.”

“As well you should,” Courfeyrac replies, opening a bottle of red wine and pouring it, dark crimson liquid flowing into the clear containers. Soon enough it fills them up, red mixing into their veins.

————————————————————————————————————————————————

There is red coming out of Enjolras’ nose this time, somewhere between gushing and trickling.

“I thought you were going to  _speak_  to that other student group with Bahorel,” Combeferre says, putting pressure on the sensitive nose in the hopes that it will stop most of the bleeding before he cleans his friend up. “Not to fight with them.”

“We _didn’t_  fight with them,” Enjolras protests, voice pinched from the pressure on his nose. “We were speaking with them in the café and a few people who were most certainly not of our political persuasion that had a grudge with Bahorel, well…they wanted to settle that grudge.”

“And you jumped in?” Combeferre asks, pulling the cloth away, the bleeding stemmed for now, and pulling forth a fresh one to wipe away the blood.

“Well I couldn’t leave Bahorel to fight alone,” Enjolras insists, bewildered at Combeferre’s question.  “I…”

“I’m teasing you a bit,” Combeferre says with a smile, pulling the cloth back and showing the red streaks to Enjolras, stark as they are against the white. “You are a very capable fighter and well poised to help Bahorel.”

“That looks like quite a bit of blood,” Enjolras muses as Combeferre washes the cloth out in a bowl, the red separating from the material and turning the water pink.

“Noses tend to do that,” Combeferre says, turning around to place a bandage on the small cut on the bride of Enjolras’ nose. “But it is thankfully not broken.”

“That is a relief,” Enjolras says, and Combeferre notices a sheepish look on his features.

“Something the matter?” Combeferre asks, wiping the traces of blood off his hands.

“Nothing of consequence,” Enjolras says, wincing as he touches his nose, a bruise already forming along the pale skin under his right eye, marring the marble complexion. “I just feel a bit foolish.”

“For getting into the fight?” Combeferre asks, settling down next to him on the sofa.

“No,” Enjolras says. “They began it, so it was inevitable. Though they didn’t fight much better than boarding school boys might. No strategy, no refinement.” He stops speaking, finishing his sentence but not his thought. His eyes flit away from Combeferre and off somewhere into an unspecified distance.

A beat passes, and there’s still no explanation. There are a few dried drops of blood on Enjolras’ white shirt, Combeferre notices.

“Enjolras?”

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t finish explaining what was the matter.”

“Oh. Yes. I’m not…I just feel I let my anger get the better of me, I suppose,” Enjolras replies. “I shouted at them instead of speaking to them.”

“Well, one cannot really educate one’s opponent when being swung at, my friend,” Combeferre says, gentle, but sensing he knows where this is coming from.

“Yes, but I am meant to be the leader, the example,” Enjolras says. “What will other groups think when they get wind of this? Paris is not so large, at least not within the network we concern ourselves with.”

“They will think that you are human,” Combeferre answers, putting his hands on both of Enjolras’ shoulders. “That you were caught in a bad place with scoundrels and you were defending yourself.”

“I was just so angry,” Enjolras whispers. “First they attacked Bahorel, and I will not stand for people attacking my friends, and then when they said what they did…”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow. “What did they say?”

Enjolras clenches the arm of the sofa, his knuckles popping white as his fingertips flood with red.

“That our cause was useless,” his tone bubbling with hot, liquid rage. He looks up, and Combeferre is surprised to see a softness in his eyes that does not match his tone. There is some kind of silent imploration there, something he needs Combeferre to see, allowing his friend into his most intimate emotions without a word. “They said that we were dead men.”

At this, Combeferre takes both of Enjolras’ hands in his, reassuring and warm.

“We know the risks,” he says. “We know what we delve into with this revolution of ours. We know not what will happen should the day of barricades come.” Enjolras looks back at him, an almost childlike fear in his eyes, not for himself, Combeferre knows, but for his friends. Because though he knows they love the cause as much as he, knows they would willingly die for it, he would die a thousand times to save each of their lives. “But we do know,” Combeferre continues. “That even if we die, inspiration for future generations will follow. It always does. Even if we lose the battle, we shall help procure the war.”

Enjolras smiles and Combeferre’s heart rests at ease in the brightness.

“You are wise, my friend,” Enjolras says. “Wiser by far than me.”

“Hmmm,” Combeferre says with a smirk. “Wise enough not to get into a fist fight with you and Bahorel, anyway.”

Enjolras chuckles, swatting him gently on the arm.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Combeferre watches Courfeyrac wait patiently for Enjolras to finish reading his sentence before prodding the cover of their friend’s book closed with a clap. Feuilly, who sits next to Combeferre on the sofa, looks on at the pair with quiet amusement.

“Courfeyrac!” Enjolras says, jumping at the soft sound. “I did not hear you come in.”

“No you certainly did not,” Courfeyrac says. “You must trust Combeferre and Feuilly a great deal to keep so little watch on who comes and goes into your own rooms.”

Enjolras furrows his eyebrows, suspicious. “You do not usually enter so quietly.”

“No indeed,” Courfeyrac says, his expression reminiscent of a kitten. “But I can be stealthy.”

“He has a surprise for you,” Combeferre cuts in, causing Feuilly to cover his mouth as he laughs at the betrayed expression on Courfeyrac’s face. “He has barely been able to contain himself for days.”

“Must you ruin  _everything_?” Courfyrac asks, resting one hand on his hip and staring pointedly at Combeferre.

“I hardly ruin everything,” Combeferre insists with a snarky grin. “I only enjoy aggravating you, my friend.”

“So it would seem,” Courfeyrac says in a dry impression of Combeferre, rolling his eyes with affection. “But yes, I do have a gift. Your birthday is not until next week I know, but as I have convinced you to go to theater with me tonight by some advent of a miracle, I’ve decided to give it to you now. Feuilly helped me select it.”

Enjolras turns, placing his book down on the table, looking at Feuilly expectantly, curious as to how Courfeyrac managed to convince him to assist with something that is very clearly clothing.

“You know as well as anyone that Courfeyrac is as persuasive as they come,” Feuilly says, throwing his hands up in the air. “Anyhow, open it up, Enjolras. I suspect you might like it.”

“It is a callback to a former gift,” Courfeyrac says. “A gift you lost, mind.”

“If you are speaking of the red cravat,” Enjolras says, undoing the wrapping paper. “It was Bossuet who lost it, not me.”

“Well you should know better than to lend such a thing to Bossuet, of all people,” Courfeyrac replies. “He loses cravats perhaps more often than I do my hats to some unfortunate accident or another. I scarcely know why he wears one.”

Combeferre watches Enjolras undo the paper, watches him lift the lid of the box to reveal a red jacket, no doubt perfectly tailored to his measurements.

“Red is your color my friend,” Courfeyrac says, delighted. “And you do not wear enough of it, given that it matches your fiery spirit. Do try it on.”

“All right,” Enjolras says, a small smile on his lips.

He slides it on, pulling his hair that is once again too long over the collar, blonde curls brushing onto the red like sunlight on fire.

“It suits you,” Combeferre says, nodding at Courfeyrac in approval.

“It is different,” Enjolras answers, looking briefly in the mirror before glancing back at Courfeyrac. “But it is a good different. Thank you, Courfeyrac. I shall wear it proudly. But you shouldn’t have.”

“Of course I should have,” Courfeyrac says, swinging an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders. “You look dashing.”

Soon, Combeferre suspects, Enjolras will be half-living in that jacket because it was given to him by a friend, and if there is one thing Enjolras treasures more than the cause that gives him life, it is his friends.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Pink sprays across the purple tinged evening sky, mixing together to make red at the edges like a set of watercolors combined across a blank canvas; the sun sets, orange bleeding into the purple and pink, creating an even deeper red that reflects against the white clouds.

The blood of their brothers in arms paints the sky, and because of that, the taste of victory is bittersweet on Combeferre’s tongue. Enjolras stands next to him, the heat of this July plastering tendrils of blonde hair to his cheeks, the ribbon keeping it out of his eyes limp half falling out. He wears the red jacket Courfeyrac gave him nearly a year ago now, and despite the fact that his pants are torn, his boots scuffed,  his hands and face covered in days old cuts rusted with red, his cravat long gone, the jacket remains intact, unblemished somehow.

“Combeferre,” Enjolras says, eyes so bright with fervor that in that moment he has gone past beautiful and entered somewhere into the realm of the sublime. Were Grantaire here, he would no doubt be able to offer the name of a Greek hero or deity. “They are moving back! They are surrendering! The people have won! We have  _won_.”

“So it would seem,” Combeferre says, grasping Enjolras’ shoulder. He does not say that yes they have won the battle perhaps, but they do not yet know if Charles will be removed, they do not know what will happen with the provisional government that is likely being set up, they do not know any of the details. But Enjolras is well-versed in all things relating to revolution and knows these things better than most, these details, these intricacies, and Combeferre will not dampen this moment for him.

“Our hope has won out,” Combeferre continues, feeling a swell of joy overcome his sadness at the losses they have inevitably suffered.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, squeezing his hand briefly, both their fingers stained with dirt and gunpowder. “And love. The future. These things are not easily secured, but we see a glimpse of them here now, on this day. In all of us here and across Paris.”

“Yes,” Combeferre says, a smile tugging at his lips as he squeezes back, the force of Enjolras’ belief, of his sheer optimism enough to light up the dark spaces in his soul. “Let us find the others, shall we? I believe I saw them gathering.”

Enjolras nods, and after a moment they see all of their friends at the edge of the crowd of the other men at the barricade. Combeferre watches as Prouvaire seizes Enjolras and embraces him with the intense ferocity he is known for in moments of immense emotion. The dying red sunlight falls in patches on the paving stones, and Enjolras steps into one to return Prouvaire’s embrace, the color reflecting off the black of his boots. Joly looks a bit shaken but otherwise exhilarated, slipping his arm through Combeferre’s to lean on him slightly, a signature smile on his face.

“Enjolras is rather in his element here, isn’t he?” Joly whispers. “I am sure I’ve never seen him so alive. He will be the leader of the next barricade we fight upon, if there is to be another revolt. I am certain. And we shall follow him.”

“I have no doubt,” Combeferre says, overcome with such an odd mix of melancholy and joy that he isn’t certain how to sort it out. “But I shall hope that these barricades are enough. That this victory here today shall secure what France searches for.”

But even as Joly leans his head on Combeferre’s shoulder in exhaustion, Combeferre knows that won’t be the truth. He believes utterly in progress, in the idea that the future will be a thing at which they will marvel, but one battle won does not a war victorious make.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

When Combeferre hears Enjolras’ and surprisingly, Gavroche’s voices in the doorway of the rooms he and Enjolras now share, there is the distinct sound of bickering.

“I’m fine, Enjolras” Gavroche mutters as the two come out of the hallway and into view.

“Certainly  _not_ ,” Enjolras argues, frowning. “Everything outside is frozen and as I happened to come across you, I will not have you sleeping in a plaster elephant in this weather if I can prevent it. Why are you always so stubborn?”

“You’re one to talk. You ain’t my Father,” Gavroche says, fierce. “And don’t insult the elephant.”

The words he doesn’t say are  _it’s the only home I have._

“He would never mean to insult your elephant,” Combeferre interjects, catching Enjolras’ eye. “He was only concerned for your health. Isn’t that right, Enjolras?”

“Yes,” Enjolras replies, a smile flickering onto his lips as he realizes that Combeferre has filled in the spaces he left blank, considering things he hadn’t. They complete and correct each other, Combeferre thinks, and have for a long time now. “Combeferre,” he says. “Could you possibly boil some water and get a small cloth while I get Gavroche settled here?”

“Of course,” Combeferre says, shutting his book.

He goes about the duties quickly, putting on some tea while he’s at it, returning to the living room a few minutes later, stopping in the doorway to observe something he’s not sure he ever expected to witness. Enjolras sits next to Gavroche on the sofa, the little boy’s hands clasped between his own with Enjolras trying his best to warm them. For all their years of friendship, they have not been around young children very much: his own siblings and Courfeyrac’s of course, but though younger, they were not children, so the only interaction he’s seen Enjolras have with them on any kind of regular basis was with the gamin who brought them messages and with Gavroche himself, who was certainly not known for his willingness to submit to anything like this.

“Oh, thank you very much Combeferre,” Enjolras says, taking the cloth and the warm water. He removes his hands from Gavroche’s allowing Combeferre to see that the young boy’s hands are red from cold, tiny little cuts lining them from the skin being split open by the wind.

Combeferre busies himself at the bookshelf, watching the two of them out of the corner of his eye.

“See?” Enjolras says, none too petulantly as he runs the warm, damp cloth over Gavroche’s hands, little dots of red marring the material. “Isn’t that better?”

“I’d have been fine,” Gavroche insists, but there is gratitude in his voice, and Combeferre knows Enjolras hears it, knows Enjolras appreciates how self-sufficient Gavroche is.

“I know,” Enjolras replies. “Gamin,” he says with begrudging affection.

“Smooth-face,” Gavroche mutters, but there is a smirk slipping on to his face and a mischief reflected in his eyes from Enjolras’ expression.

An hour later after there has been tea and Gavroche is asleep on their sofa, Combeferre stands in the doorway of Enjolras’ room, watching his friend rifle around his drawers with a nervous energy, the cloth he’d cleaned Gavroche’s hands with still in his clutches, still dotted with red.

“Enjolras, perhaps sit for a moment…”

“It is getting worse,” Enjolras says in a pained, furious whisper. “The people suffer more, they are hungry, there is cholera, there is…no one in power listens, the people do not have any say in anything…”

“I know,” Combeferre says, striding forward into the room and sitting Enjolras down on the bed with a gentle push of the shoulders. And he does. He feels it in his bones, the poverty, the hunger, the desperation in every street and the silence of the king and the nobles. In the dying children and poor he sees at Necker.

“The time is coming,” Enjolras says, breathless as he looks back at Combeferre, the aura around him crackling with energy and anger. “It is not rational to say so perhaps, but I can _feel_  it.”

“Some of the most important things are not rational,” Combeferre answers, covering Enjolras’ hand with his own in shared understanding. “And I feel it, too.”

Combeferre looks at Enjolras, and despite the frigid temperatures, sweat beads at his forehead, his fury boiling so hot within him that it flows outward, and in that moment Combeferre is certain that whoever they face on the day the barricades inevitably arrive will not be prepared for such a terrible opponent. The man Combeferre knows is a soft smile, a quiet companion until you catch him soaring through the air with unbridled passion, an undignified shout of laughter at a pun, a mind as sharp as a knife, reserved but unconsciously tactile with those he cares about. A man filled with hope on fire and a love so immense it is breath stopping. But the man they will see? That will be someone quite different, a man red with righteous fury, a deadly, ferocious soldier with the strategies of revolutionaries’ past stored within him, improved by history and lessons learned. An idealist who will not give up.

A kind of man, he suspects, that they fear most.

———————————————————————————————————————————————

Combeferre knows the barricade is lost.

Enjolras too, knows the barricade is lost, and that is why he sent men away, snuck them out in uniforms back to the families who need them, back so that they might live to fight another day and keep the beliefs they fight for here alive and well and breathing.

Because these things can never die, even if they all do.

Even if he does.

It is pain he feels abruptly when bending over to help a wounded National Guard soldier, but more than anything else, it is shock. This is an inappropriate place for shock, but he feels it nonetheless as he crumples to the ground, his vision growing blurry. He has lost sight of his friends; he does not know who is left alive and who is dead.

He thinks he hears Courfeyrac call his name, but he is not sure whether it is from the other side of the barricade or from somewhere far beyond.

He does not see Enjolras, that dash of red and voice of fire. His dear friend. His friend who could move mountains if he tried, who surely moved people to follow them with his words alight with optimism and belief and the future. His brother.

He looks up to the sky, and against the blue he catches sight of the red flag atop the barricade, tattered, burned, but holding fast as it whips in the wind. Belief burgeons further in his soul even as he feels his body shutting down. In his mind’s eye he sees the red cravat from the first day he met Enjolras, the exact same shade of the flag he sees now. The shade of Enjolras’ cheeks when Courfeyrac made him laugh, the color of blood, the color of Gavroche’s wind cracked hands, the color of a jacket.

_The blood of angry men._

_A grave illuminated by the dawn._

A pair of hands seize his lapels.

A flash of blonde hair.

A flash of red.

_Combeferre_ , the familiar voice says, broken into fragments of red on the ground.  _No no no_

_My friend_ , Combeferre wants to say, but cannot make the words come.  _Enjolras._

Even through Combeferre’s blurry vision he can see the tears in Enjolras’ eyes lit gold by the rising sun behind him.

_A world about to dawn._

Their sacrifices will matter, he tells himself as his eyes close. One day, victory will be theirs. Progress, hard won. And from wherever they are, they will know it.

_We will share thy fate!_

He smiles into the oblivion and does not regret.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————-

The others go ahead, but Combeferre and Courfeyrac wait for Enjolras.

They know he is coming, here to this place with the light. There is no red here, Combeferre thinks, only white.

Eventually, he comes. Grantaire is at his side, and there is clasping of hands, an embrace, smiles, whispered words before Grantaire walks on, leaving the three of them in this colorless space.

“My friends,” Enjolras says, and the three of them lean their foreheads against one another.

Then Combeferre sees them, in this room of white, in their clothes of white, in the white behind and below and above.

Red marks on Enjolras’ body visible through the white clothing. Marks of bullets. Nine of them, to be precise, representing their inner circle, their family by force of friendship. They are no longer holes, simply round dots marking different spots where he was struck. Painless now, but evident.

“Red,” Enjolras says with a smile, reading Combeferre’s thoughts.

“Red,” Combeferre replies, returning it.

Courfeyrac reaches out and places a hand over the red spot over Enjolras’ heart, holding it there for a moment.

They turn, and the light beckons. They walk toward it, and as they do, the white swirls away from them, revealing a barricade beneath them on the streets of Paris. They cannot touch, but they can view, and wherever they are, wherever they are headed, Combeferre sees that this vision below them is the future, a barricade with cheering inhabitants, and the sun shining overheard.

And somewhere near the top, a lone red flag rests.


End file.
